


Sherlock Holmes and the Mysterious Beau

by Wereflamingo



Category: Enola Holmes Series - Nancy Springer
Genre: But Not Officially Because Victorian England, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Happy Ending, Heteronormativity, Holmes Family Feels, LGBTQ Female Character, POV Enola Holmes, POV First Person, POV Sherlock Holmes, POV Third Person Limited, Past Tense, Present Tense, Same-Sex Marriage, Secret Relationship, Specifically Sherlock Is Being Heteronormative, Supportive Mycroft Holmes, Supportive Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:55:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28135023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wereflamingo/pseuds/Wereflamingo
Summary: As the siblings Holmes and Enola's good friend Cecily Alistair celebrate their first Christmas hosted by Enola and Cecily in their new home, Sherlock is shocked to discover that Enola has a secret lover! So obviously, he snoops. Who is this man? Why did she not tell her family? Is she secretly MARRIED??? And if she's married, where is the husband??? Perhaps it's best not to tell Mycroft just yet.
Relationships: Cecily Alistair & Mycroft Holmes, Cecily Alistair/Enola Holmes, Enola Holmes & Mycroft Holmes, Enola Holmes & Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Sherlock Holmes and the Mysterious Beau

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RecessiveJean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RecessiveJean/gifts).



> Dear RecessiveJean,  
> Thank you for the fun prompts and inspiring letter! I had a lot of fun writing this and I'm excited for you to see it. I hope I succeeded in writing something that will give you joy. Happy holidays!
> 
> Huge thanks to crossroadswrite for the quick beta and encouragement!
> 
> Edit after author reveals: did I ask for no Christmas fic and then write a Christmas fic myself? Yes, yes I did. It seems a little silly, but actually researching something that is an "other" to me for writing is different from getting it in a gift made specifically for me, so I don't regret it.

**London, Christmas, 1895**

Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, is enjoying a Christmas celebration at the new home of his younger sister, Enola. She shares it with her good friend, Lady Cecily Alistair, and together the two are hosting the Holmes Christmas dinner for the first time. They boarded together for years, ever since they attended University College London together, but now that Enola has come of age, they have acquired a home of their own.

Sherlock’s older brother Mycroft is also, of course, in attendance. For both of them, this is their first visit to the new home, and so far Sherlock has found it rather lovely. It is decorated for the holiday with evergreens, and a tree stands in the corner of the parlor. It’s decorated with flowers, garlands of nuts, and the hand-painted ornaments Mycroft retrieved for Enola from Ferndell Hall, made by their late mother. Additionally, several oranges Sherlock himself brought with him now hang by ribbons from the tree. They were a gift for Lady Cecily. Since any gift of value is considered inappropriate, Sherlock mostly thinks of gifts for young ladies as an etiquette nightmare, but he wouldn’t snub the one of the hostesses, especially since she is his sister’s beloved friend.

The oranges, acquired on the advice of his housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson, seem somewhat inadequate compared to Mycroft’s gift, but the truth is that while flowers, being ephemeral, are an appropriate gift for a single woman one is not engaged to, the particular box brought by Mycroft is positively overflowing with amaryllis and holly, which seems rather excessive, in Sherlock's inexpert opinion.

Surely Mycroft isn’t harboring designs on Lady Cecily? Enola might like it, he supposes; they’d be sisters then, and she really is so very fond of her. But no, the very idea of it makes Sherlock’s skin crawl, though he doesn’t know why.

Either way, it seems she already has a favored beau. After excusing himself to retrieve a digestive tablet from his coat pocket, sorely needed after the rich meal, Sherlock’s eyes fall on the large bouquet of red roses placed on a little table in the entrance hall. Judging by its careless off-center positioning, it was well received; Lady Cecily must have picked it up to admire it at some point after the maid was sent home, and then put it down in a hurry.

At second glance, though, it occurs to Sherlock that the roses are interspersed with ferns and  _ ivy _ . Is it perhaps ivy for Enola? Is it possible that his sister, who has never wanted to marry, is the one who has a beau? He approaches the table, examining the bouquet from all sides. Tucked in the back, he finds a note, written in elegant calligraphy more reminiscent of painting than writing: 

_ To my dear Ivy, with love on our first holiday season,  _

_ Always yours, Fern. _

It must be a new courtship, then. But who is this Fern? Why did Enola never say anything about him? Is it because there is something wrong with him, or is Enola running scared of her own brothers again? Sherlock continues to contemplate that as he returns to the party. Studying Mycroft from across the table, he wonders if he is threatening her with some misguided harm again. It has been years since Mycroft was convinced of Enola’s intelligence and self-sufficiency, and she is of age now, but Sherlock wouldn’t put it past him to find some fault in her decisions and attempt to protect her from herself even now.

But perhaps there really is something she needed protecting from. Sherlock decides it is his duty to investigate. 

Luckily, Enola’s study is en route to the water closet, so Sherlock can take a look in the only place he would dare enter where he is likely to find something of interest.

The obvious thing, of course, would be to look for other possible gifts. More flowers, a tin of candy, perhaps even letters. But of course, the desk drawer is locked, as it should be, and Sherlock will leave it be for now. But perhaps something is displayed on top of the desk, or on the bookshelves? 

Sherlock does not find any candy or flowers on the bookshelves, but he does notice one peculiar thing: one of Enola’s University textbooks is tucked into a prominent place, at what Sherlock thinks would probably be a comfortable height for her stature. But Enola has long since finished her course. Does she really consult it so often? Or perhaps she likes to look at it for a different reason?

Sherlock opens the book, and finds what he was afraid of: an inscription.

_ To my dear Ivy,  _

_ My love and pride in you knows no bounds. I know you will do well, and cannot wait to be by your side to witness what you do with what you learn. _

_ Love, _

_ Your Fern _

So this Fern, then, was gifting Enola with books! Books being a gift that is not ephemeral in the least… Sherlock is suddenly very aware that ivy may be for Enola, and for fidelity, but it’s also for marriage. Is Enola  _ engaged _ ? Without saying a word?

What  _ is _ it that is wrong with this Fern that would compel Enola to hide him away?

But Sherlock can see one thing that is very right about him. The book, after all, is relevant to Enola’s interests, as well as her ambitions. It is a thoughtful gift, indicative of great familiarity. This is no regular man expecting Sherlock's free-spirited sister to become a proper wife and mother. This is clearly someone who could be a good match for Enola. Perhaps the worrying was for nothing, then.

As he turns to leave, though, Sherlock’s eye is caught by a series of sketches hanging in two rows on the far wall. He realizes it is actually a double series, two artists sketching the same locations. The sketches in the bottom row, as he expected, carry Enola's initials. The ones in the top row carry no signatures, but the style seems vaguely familiar as well, with bold, angular lines done in charcoal. Nothing like the classic ladylike sketching that even Enola favors, for all that she puts femininity on like a cloak and sets it aside when it is no longer of use. 

In the corner away from the door hangs a single sketch, with no pair. It’s a portrait of Enola, and Sherlock has never seen anything like it. It looks exactly like his sister does in his mind’s eye: eyes sparkling, brows furrowed a little in thought, her nose as familiar as it is unfortunate, nothing glossed over or “improved upon”, and yet the level of detail implies that the artist is fascinated by her. His sister, as she grew, has gained some weight in the last years, but her face, it seems, just changed its little lingering baby fat for equally little feminine roundness. It seems to fit perfectly in the bold lines of the mysterious artist, looking almost ethereal, not like an angel or a flowery version of a fairy, but rather like a fey creature of the original, dangerous kind, those from his childhood tales. 

He is almost appeased, hurrying to rejoin the party, when he sees the last two sketches in the double series, hanging by the door. While the other sketches were obviously done on nature walks (chaperoned by  _ who _ ?), these two were of a building. Why a building? Which building is this? Sherlock is sure he’s seen it before, but where? 

In the newspaper perhaps?

And then he remembers. The building looks familiar because it's the blacksmith shop in Gretna Green! He thought the ivy was for future marriage, but now it appears that the marriage has already happened! And before Enola even came of age, or is that not what the town of Gretna Green is for? 

But no, the date on Enola's sketch is after her birthday. Why elope, then? And to Gretna Green, of all places? Did they think it romantic? None of it makes any sense!

Sherlock is running uncomfortably late to return now. Should he perhaps just ask Enola about it later? But there is no guarantee she won't be spooked, and no one is going to say anything about the delay other than to ask if he is well, which he rather thinks he isn’t, as a matter of fact. The whole thing makes his stomach turn as if he had taken no medicine at all.

There must be more information. Where does this husband live? Is there a wedding license? Sherlock considers trying the desk drawer after all, but a marriage license is an important document; wouldn’t it be hidden better than that? Sherlock knows Enola used to carry such valuable items on her person, but now that she has her own home, she might have changed her habit.

His glance falls on a decorative panel between the top of the desk and the drawer. It is rather wide, indicative of either a very sturdy desk, or… After he finds the little lever, the panel pops out easily. But he doesn’t find a piece of paper there, but rather an entire album.

Opening the album, he flips through the pages, finding only pressed flower bouquets. How odd! But perhaps those are the gifts of flowers he was looking for. And knowing Enola, and how her mysterious husband plays along by identifying himself as “Fern”, the bouquets most likely have encoded meanings in the language of flowers. Luckily, by now Sherlock has been convinced of the usefulness of knowing any form of communication, including those used by such perplexing creatures as women and lovers. In fact, a floriography guide was the very first Christmas gift he ever received from Enola.

He returns to the very first page of the album, and examines the bouquet: white bellflower for gratitude, sweet william for gallantry, oak leaf for strength or bravery, pink carnation for “I’ll never forget you”. This bouquet must be a gift from someone Enola rescued.

The second bouquet, in yellow, is rather odd. Yellow roses for friendship, that much is common knowledge, angelica for inspiration, and what are those leaves? Fig, perhaps? No, those represent argument. Sycamores are much like figs, though, and sycamore, if his memory serves, represents curiosity. Despite the roses, the bouquet is not very attractive, so Sherlock feels confident that its main objective was the message: “You fascinate and inspire me, my friend”, or “let’s be friends”, perhaps. 

On the third page is a brighter bouquet of morning glories, periwinkle, and pink camellias. Affection, early friendship, and… longing? Honestly, for a chronicle of love, this is rather sweet.

The next page has a date Sherlock recognizes well, Enola’s university exam date. And indeed, the bouquet includes white carnations, for good luck, as well as pansies, hollyhock, thyme, and Jasmine. Thoughts, ambition, courage or strength, and—there it is—sweet love.

This is… it’s enough. Good enough, no cause for worry. A lover who is a friend, who knows Enola well, appreciates her strength and bravery and supports her in her endeavors; perhaps it's good enough. 

But still, who is this man? The variety of flowers suggests access to a conservatory, and a gardener. A rich man, with a country home, who Enola rescued in 1888… The only one who comes to mind is Viscount Tewksbury, Marquess of Basilwether. Sherlock doesn’t know the details of that particular adventure, however. He got the impression that Enola had to rescue  _ herself _ there as well.

The flowers are sweet, but Sherlock decides he got information enough out of them. He stops “reading” them, and instead flips the pages rapidly, looking for something that might stand out. There are only a few more bouquets, the rest of the album presumably free for future memories. When he reaches the end, he finds an envelope tucked between the last page and the cover, as well as a large group photograph glued to the page, taken in some sort of library. At the college, perhaps, or, since all the subjects appear to be women, the professional women’s club. 

Enola is in the center, more or less, surrounded by friends. Sherlock only vaguely recognizes some of them, except for Lady Cecily, of course, who is sitting beside her. They appear to be dressed up, possibly celebrating a special occasion. Graduation, perhaps? Or maybe Enola trusted her friends with what she didn’t trust her brothers with: sending her off to her wedding.

He picks up the envelope next, and discovers a few lines of text inscribed on the back, still in the same artistic calligraphy:

_ My dear Enola, _

_ Although we cannot have that piece of paper that will tell everyone it is so, to me you are my wife. I hope you will accept this other little piece of paper as a worthy substitute. _

Cannot have? Whyever not? Is Enola's beau a married man? Or perhaps a Catholic, separated from his wife but choosing adultery over abandoning his faith entirely? Or is it just that his family is opposed, Enola being such an unconventional young woman? And why go to Gretna Green and then not marry? 

Whatever the reason may be, this is cause for wariness. Although, if they are wise enough to avoid a scandal and this man's official marriage is of the sort where such things are allowed by mutual consent, a married man is perhaps the best option for Enola, if she for some reason desires romance in her life. She is, after all, quite unsuited to being a wife herself. If this is indeed the Marquess of Basilwether, well, Enola would hardly be interested in becoming a marchioness.

But no, the boy was too young to go courting on the dates those first bouquets were received, twelve years old, or thirteen. If not for the newspaper articles stating his age, Sherlock would have thought him a child of ten. For Enola, who at fourteen was capable of routinely passing for an adult, it seems simply preposterous.

But then, who? Surely not Dr. Watson? Sherlock is quite certain his dear friend would never do such a thing, nor would he have succeeded in hiding it from Sherlock.

There is simply no other man Sherlock could think of who Enola helped in that timeframe! Is there someone he doesn't know about? No, she would have found a moment to boast about it by now.

After hesitating just a moment, Sherlock carefully opens the envelope. Inside is a hand-drawn card, decorated with flowers and greenery, fern and ivy featuring prominently. But what really draws Sherlock’s eye is not the decoration, but the text, or more specifically, the handwriting. While the script is still neat and elegant, it isn't the carefully painted calligraphy of Fern’s other messages. This is a much longer text, written, Sherlock suspects, in a moment of passion. Nobody would write their first draft of a letter on such an ornately decorated card, but these decorations were clearly drawn around the text after it was written, the greenery not touching the odd long line protruding from the rest of the text. 

So, Sherlock concludes, this must be the real handwriting of Enola’s mysterious beau. The trouble is, though, that this small rounded handwriting looks distinctly  _ female _ .

Perhaps he misinterpreted? Is this album an expression of sisterly love?

No, what tosh. Sherlock almost laughs at himself out loud. The author of the card clearly stated she sees Enola as her wife. And ivy is for marriage, as is Gretna Green. He can see now why they could not marry, and why, if one wanted to be sentimental, they might choose to travel to Gretna Green anyway. Gretna Green is not just for weddings, it’s for  _ forbidden _ weddings.

A stereotype on handwriting seems too flimsy to be sufficient evidence, but now that the idea has entered his mind, Sherlock knows it to be true. Everything falls into place, starting with the simple question of where exactly  _ is _ this mysterious "husband". 

Fern, for humility. Yes, that suits—Sherlock scans the card—right, there it is: 

_ I, Cecily Alistair, promise to love and to cherish… _

The fern suits Lady Cecily Alistair very well. And Lady Cecily herself certainly suits Enola very well. What an unexpected revelation!

And Enola didn't tell her brothers. Understandable, he feels. This is hardly standard, after all. But all his worries have been disproved, and he has seen with his own eyes the happiness the evidence hinted at, so truly, he has no objections left. He can only conclude that Cecily Alistair is, in fact, the perfect "husband" for his younger sister. And isn’t that true to character? The perfect husband for Enola is not a husband at all!

Finally, he puts the album back and returns to the dinner table, apologizing for his prolonged absence. He spends the end of the night thinking about how alone his sister must feel, having to hide her joy away from her only family—other than Lady Cecily, of course. 

He must say something to her! But how to do that without alerting Mycroft? It’s a conundrum, but as they enter the front hall again on their way out, his glance falls on the bouquet that started this little adventure for him, and inspiration strikes him. As Lady Cecily thanks Mycroft again for his gift, Sherlock lingers by the little table with Enola. “The fern is a lovely match for the ivy,” he says casually. “They complement each other very well, don’t you think?” 

Enola looks at him as if he was mad. He supposes it is rather unusual of him to comment on flower arrangements, but then that is precisely why he did it. If nothing was out of place, how would Enola know there was more to his words? He strokes one of the flowers with a small smile. “Dear sister, I hope the roses bloom for a very long time.”

* * *

It took me only until the door closed behind both my brothers to decode Sherlock’s message, and I relayed it to Cecily immediately. I was a little cross with him, because I was nearly sure he had looked through my things while he was away from the table, but despite that, I was elated. Sherlock supported me! Supported  _ us _ ! I laughed as Cecily hugged me and spun me around. I couldn’t be happier with our home and our family.

Except… “The only thing missing is Mycroft’s approval,” I told Cecily. We had stopped spinning, but didn’t let go. “And yet I can't help but hope that Sherlock doesn't tell him. It seems unlikely that he'll be as agreeable as Sherlock, he's always been so rigid.” I sighed and rested my chin on top of Cecily’s head.

“He’s treated me very well, though,” Cecily comforted me. “A perfect gentleman.”

It was true. My eldest brother was still a little prone to underestimating people, especially if those people were female, but he was nothing but respectful to Cecily.

“The flowers he gave me are lovely,” she commented, untangling herself from my arms to admire them. “I wonder if the Amaryllis is cut or if it's been placed in the box as is, bulbs and all. My mother can keep Amaryllis bulbs alive for years, you know.”

She pushed a few sprigs of holly aside a little, probably trying to peek at the bottom of the Amaryllis stalks. She stilled, blinking.

“Something wrong, love?”

Cecily did not reply. Instead, she started pulling out the holly entirely, along with the crumpled tissue paper that was holding everything in place. At the bottom, right next to the two Amaryllis bulbs, lay a thin rectangular box.

Cecily picked it up, brows furrowed, and opened it. She looked up at me in obvious distress, offering me the box.

I gasped. “Why, this was my father’s! And my grandfather’s before that, and  _ his _ father’s before  _ that _ .” In the box was a beautiful silver fountain pen in a vine pattern I was honestly amazed to realize I remembered.

My mind was reeling. The gift was shockingly improper. Not by the content of course, but the value! Any gift of value to a single woman from a man who was not engaged to her was out of the question, and this gift was not only valuable, but also a family heirloom. I knew, of course, that my oldest brother was not, in fact, engaged to my wife by all but name, so why in the world would he bring such an inappropriate gift?

“I think,” Cecily said slowly, peering at the piece of paper she unfolded from the lid of the box, “that your brother knows what we are to each other.”

“Oh my stars and garters!” She was right. The note said:

_ To: The Hon. Lady Cecily Alistair _

_ Dear sister, _

_ Though I may not always agree with the product of your pen, I cannot dispute that it is a clever and courageous one, quite in line with the tradition of our family. I hope this serves you well in your endeavors. _

_ Your brother, M.H. _

My eyes stung. My stern, proud brother Mycroft called my wife his sister, just as if we had married as any other couple. And he praised her work at the house of Florence Nightingale—evidently, he knew of it, though it was not normally under her own name—as if he was as proud of her as I was. My brother was welcoming my wife into our family and  _ giving us his blessing _ .

I threw my arms around my dear Cecily’s neck and kissed her fiercely. This was all I ever wanted: independent, but not alone; at home with my love, as unconventional as it was, but not isolated from my other family, my brothers. 

Cecily laughed against my mouth, holding my face in her delicate hands. She was crying. I kissed away every tear, overwhelmed by gratitude for her, for both my brothers, for our home and our life.

If I could send another message to my mother, by the Pall Mall Gazette of above, I would tell her, in absolute honesty, that all is well.

**Author's Note:**

> Gretna Green is the first town on the railway after the Scottish border. The law in Scotland was different, so underage couples (under 21) would elope to Gretna Green to marry without the consent of their parents.
> 
> Did I make Cecily give Enola a ketubah? It seems so. Oops? I would have had Sherlock comment on it, but he got distracted.
> 
> In the end I didn't find a good place to mention charity work, but I can't actually imagine them not doing any. My headcanon is that Enola went out the night before, as the Sister of the Streets, Sherlock trailing her in costume with her consent. Did Cecily come with her? I don't know, I think she might still get frustrated being able to help some people but not everyone, so she might have stayed home. But she may have been involved in the founding of a couple of schools in the slums, so she probably visited those schools before the holiday with some gifts of food and warm clothes for the kids and their families.


End file.
